In The Light Of Day
by morebones
Summary: "The thing that worries her the most is how Castle will react when he wakes up. He was mad at her only yesterday. They were done. Kate's chest tightens with sorrow and she turns a bit in his arms, gently, trying not to disturb him in his sleep." A morning-after fic, the morning after 'Always'. In part prompted by the S5 promo, so it's only *in part* spoiler-ish. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _I broke my foot two weeks ago and it's annoying. Thankfully, my mind's been occupied because we're approaching D-Day and we've got lots of spoilers and pics and snippets flying around. And we've been rewarded with the awesomeness of the first promo of the season! Wasn't it more than great? I can't be more excited... _

_Anyway, as the promo gives us new post 'Always' material, a new avalanche of 'morning after' fics was in order. Here's my contribution. _

_This first part is not really that spoilery; all the similarities could be merely coincidental (it was already half written in my hard disk). Next part would be, thought. _

Disclaimer:_ Not mine, but I don't really care. AWM does a real fine work. ;)_

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It's still early, but she decides it's been enough.

She had thought she wouldn't sleep at all, given the circumstances and yesterday's happenings, but her partner's arms have proven to be an extraordinary place to rest. Or just be, for that matter. Warm, safe, caring, loving. Strong… She's slept more than a few hours and quite good, she must admit. Only the reassuring light of a new day (perhaps a new life) could wake her. And once she's awake she just can't stay put.

She's still reeling from all that's happened and, as good as it was last night (because it was _more_ than good) and, as comfortable as she may be lying relaxed in his embrace (and she truly is), if she stays in bed, she'll start thinking too much. Wondering. A thousand questions popping in her mind without an answer to comfort her. What's she going to do now that she's quitted her job? Where are those who want to kill her? How long do they have until they try again? What's Castle's deal with this Mr. Smith? How are Esposito, or Ryan, coping?

But the thing that worries her the most is how Castle will react when he wakes up. He was mad at her only yesterday. Really mad. They were done.

Her chest tightens with sorrow and she turns a bit in his arms, gently, trying not to him in his sleep. She draws herself closer to him, slowly, to feel his skin in her skin, to breathe him in and believe he's real. Delighting in the feeling, she places a light but lingering kiss in his shoulder and sighs softly; then, she carefully disentangles herself from his loose lethargic grip. She doesn't want to wake him. He looks so at peace, so young, so unburdened… Nothing like two days ago when he had walked away, broken, without looking back, leaving her to her stupid stubbornness.

Last night she tried to erase all that, all the bad things she knows he was feeling because of her. As the cleansing rain was falling forcefully in the streets, she had tried to wipe away with her kisses and caresses the rage, the fear, the distress, the unhappiness, the grief; the storm roaring outside in rhythm with their frenzied hearts. She only hopes now that they don't end covered in mud. She tried her best, however, she's aware she's got not much credibility with him right now; she's not good at communicating feelings, she lacks control when it comes to her past and her mother's case. And she's not that good at being upfront with him. He's kind and good-hearted and forgiving, she knows. But still, she chose her silly war, and even her death, not just over him, but over anything and everything. If it had happened the other way around, she doesn't know how she'd have acted. If he went out to die, unreasonably, in a losing battle, disregarding her, after she'd confessed her love? She'd be disappointed, frustrated, desolate. She doesn't want to even think of it…

With one last look at him, refraining herself from running her fingers through his hair, she slides out of the warm bed, out of his caring arms.

The air is chilly and it makes her shiver. Maybe it's just her body already missing his. She winces at the thought and is thankful that he would never hear it. With a shake of her head and a smile, she steps toward his closet and picks a shirt. Her clothes are who-knows-where and probably totally ruined, still drenched, and, anyway, she wants to have something of him, not being ready to totally leave his warmth, and wanting to, at the same time, show a compromise. Wearing his clothes is something intimate; it's something that says "It's already morning and I'm still here." And she needs that now, to reassure himself as much as herself.

By the way shadows are vanishing in the faint light, the sun must be still low in the horizon, its beams filling the room with golden sparkles and amber flecks, feebly at first, more powerfully by the minute; like waking up, like claiming slowly the reign of its domains.

She walks to the side window as she slips on his shirt. It smells like fresh laundry and him, and it's intoxicating.

Fastening the middle buttons, she looks out. The city is still dozing.

There are no apparent signs of the furious storm, only the silent wetness of buildings and streets and the humidity she can discern in the ambient. Pink-gray clouds disperse in the early dark blue sky as it is being shattered by rays of white and reddish and orange light in increasing brightness. A new day, indeed. In full force.

She serenely takes in that she's staring at a different view of Manhattan. Different but just the same, she reflects. Just like them. They're different now, but still the same. Aren't they? No. No, she reasons. They are more.

She turns to observe him again. The bedspread is in one side; the sheets are covering his lower half and his abdomen, but reveal his upper torso, his broad chest and shoulders bare for her to enjoy. He is breathing softly, his arm still in the place where she was lying a few minutes ago, now holding just thin air.

She bits her lower lip. Is this for real or just a mirage? They've jumped. But, what now?

She sighs.

And out of the nothing, a thought that she had tried to relegate to the bottom of her unconsciousness, that she had attempted to ignore, unsuccessfully most of the time, comes back unbidden to nag at her again.

What if what Sofia said was true?

Sofia… The mere memory of her is disgusting; even reading Clara Strike is somewhat difficult now. She hates her. Not the character, no; the woman and all that she represents. She hates that she's made her doubt herself and them so much, that she made her unsure about Castle when she'd been almost there. And yes, she's dead and she knows she was a traitor of the worst class; that she betrayed her country and the people who had trusted her for years, and that all she said was, probably, a lie. She knows it. But the words she uttered to her still sound in her mind.

What if he loses his interest on her after sleeping together?

She'd be devastated. Utterly and completely devastated.

She's one of his many muses. Another one. She wonders again how many of them there have been. How many he took to bed. He'd said that she was different, but she can't help this feeling creeping inside. This uneasiness. He has a reputation; he's strolled around Manhattan with a blonde in each arm and many more behind him. So what if this is just that?

She reminisces about the very first case they worked together. The first time she took him to the station and how, when they'd finally caught the killer, he had already wanted to take her to bed. "Debrief", he had called it. It had been absolutely surreal, she has to concede. It'd been unexpected and totally odd that his favorite author ever had happened to land under her jurisdiction and had chosen her to annoy with his (lovable) antics, accompanying her in her investigations. She had been so furious at first… But he was… refreshing. It worked. He surprisingly helped to solve the cases. And however frustrating he could be at times, she had found herself loving their dynamic, their special magic. They were good. They are good.

She closes her eyes and relives their night. Yes, they are good together. She had imagined them in bed more often that she'd ever admit, and she had the feeling that they'd be good, but reality had been exceptional; it had exceeded all her expectations. She tries to unsuccessfully suppress a smile at the thought.

They can't be just a spur of the moment.

He's been there all this time, making her fall in love with him detail by detail. She was predisposed; she already loved his books, his mind. It was not difficult to fall in love with the rest of him once he left aside the act and the playboy façade, and the charming gentleman, the adorable man with the boy inside, the loving father, the good son, the loyal friend, the unrelenting partner had emerged. Full force.

It was difficult for her to believe that he could love her in return, especially after all the commotion of last year; the misunderstandings of the previous ones; the pretenses; suppressed feelings; the pretexts; the subtext, and the general state of damage she was in.

Yet, here they are.

He loves her. And he had waited for her to get her act together; waited for her wall to come down so that he could finally see her fixed, whole, and finally be let in.

She looks at him, lying peacefully on his back, satisfied smile on his lips and a wrinkle of happiness on his eyes, and she has to take a deep breath to loosen the sudden knot in her throat, her eyes shining a bit too much.

Oh, she knows the real Richard Castle. Yes, she does.

He used to have a reputation. Used to. Not anymore. Lanie and she already had this conversation. And, despite the stewardess "episode" of barely a few months ago (ironically, as a twisted cosmic joke, just after such conversation), she knows he's not the playboy he used to enact. She doubts he ever was it at all; not like the magazines tried to sell him, anyway.

And she is certain she's not another notch in his bedpost. She's gotten enough proof that that's not what this is. She is not just a random conquest and this is not a preset goal. Not even to his childish whims, his eagerness, his love for challenge and his dismissal of rejection. Not now.

He chose her to be his muse, and there have been more; but he has also chosen to stay by her side. continuously. He's been a little shiny light that's been guiding her inadvertently, a tiny but firm voice that has really proven to be effective, for she has reached, if not a final destination, at least a place to rest. No, not just that. It's a place to begin anew.

There's not much more to say after that.

She will be braver now; she will give back. One has to feed love with love, hope and patience only reaching so far; they may be enough for a moment or two, but they alone can't sustain a heart.

So, although she hopes she's been clear, that he realizes that she's sincere, it'll be understandable that he doesn't really trust she's firm on her choice of him over… everything. If it comes to it, if he isn't able to just let go of the way she deceived him, how she ended pushing him away, she'll wait for him to forgive her.

She owes it to him. And to herself.

With a decided strode, mussed hair and half-dressed, she walks out the bedroom and toward the kitchen. It's her turn to stay right by his side; to be tough and persevere.

To bring him a cup of coffee and put a smile on his face.

Even if she doesn't really know how to do this, she will make him see.

She smiles.

Maybe she should make pancakes.

.

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**A**_**/N:** Gee... I love morning fics, you can play so much with the light... Well, share your thoughts with me? :)_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N**: This was going to be just a **short **morning-after story to fit the barely four new lines and five new photograms of the first S5 promo. It seems I don't do concise. Until the word #4061, this chapter felt incomplete and I still added bits while editing - and I would've written more if the story were M-rated. I mean, it's a long chapter; I didn't have the heart to cut it._

_Thanks for the reviews and all the favorites and the follows of the story; my heart thumps with joy whenever my stories are appreciated like that by readers. _

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He hasn't had the best of times these past months, this past year. It was hell to be left aside during her recovery, to not know of her for so long that he'd almost lost faith. But it was hard too to stand by her side, living in uncertainty, surviving only on the crumbs of subtext, on lingering glances, on repressed smiles and casual touches. And his overeager brain, always boiling with ideas, never helped a bit, as it kept conjuring up scenes of all kind, caste and form, painfully organic for him: of total loss and despair, even destruction, when things go wrong; of the most happily ever after future, whenever they look good, whenever she gave away just another tiny bit of her complicated self. Or simply smiled.

After the shooting, his nights had been tormenting; they were too long, too lonely, empty of all good things, and packed with terror and despair. The few hours he managed to sleep, out of complete exhaustion, were a succession of too vivid images of hunts, void and downfall, or a reliving of the Captain's death, or his funeral, with Kate dying once and again in his arms. Days were not much better, his writer mind working overtime to create and recreate scenarios of havoc and death (his and hers, mainly, but also Alexis' and his Mother's and the boys' and the captain's), every one of them horrifying.

However, since Beckett had come back, just as they both resumed their partnership, the nightmares had become less frequent, the stories in his mind less dreadful, less bloody, less dramatic, until he was almost back to normal. What's more, he had been starting to dream of her again like he used to do before, and even in broad daylight. They were dreams and daydreams bursting with the light of hope and the fire of passion. Some were sweet, just a walk holding hands, a good morning kiss; some were hot, scalding hot, gloriously impure. There were promises in every coffee, in every smile.

But then, the bombing case stirred up his innermost fears and they awoke, furious, like a real dark beast hungry of his heart. Then, the nightmares were merciless and wrenching and always cruel. He died a little every time. He would wake up in the morning and feel the remnants of the cold and the grief. He would evoke perfectly - still in the edge of sleep but exceptionally aware and alert - the ghostly silhouette of a bleeding Kate slipping from his hold, muting into a mean creature that laughs harshly and unpityingly at him, after his confession of love, how he desperately pleads for her to stay but she just floats away in a tumult of dark outlines while cold surrounds everything. Cold and laughter.

After they dealt with the zombie man, when she'd almost come clean with him and he realized that he hadn't been imagining things all this time, that she was not playing him after all, they appeased again. But he'd still been restless. And after the fateful outcome of the latest opening on Kate's and her mother's cases, he just hadn't even known how to feel. Everything had ended just like in his worst dreams. Because he'd really expected that the next time he heard from her would be to attend her funeral.

.

A shiver in his sleep wakes him up. He was warm and now he's not, and his body protests, experiencing not just coolness, but a sense of loss of all the warmth of his bed. He jolts awake, sitting in a brusque move, his mind blurry with sleep, his heart throbbing. For less than an instant, he thinks he's had that nightmare again.

He shakes his head a bit to clear his mind and feels, more than knows, that she should be there, with him. Flashes of last night mingle with scenes of his more R-rated fantasies, and he reaches blindly for the other side of the bed. He encounters another kind of nightmare. There's just emptiness where her sleeping body should be.

His heart crushes and he's invaded by sadness and disappointment. In her desolation, he tries to nonsensically convince himself that he must have dreamt of it all. He must have dreamt of her silky skin melting, like sugar into sweet caramel, under the touch of his fingers; of her infinite legs grasping him, heels digging into his calves; her perfect breasts, so responsive in every one of his thousand-and-one approaches; her - at once - virtuous and sinful mouth, uttering words just for his ears, faint sounds of appreciation while her lips branded his skin; her tender eyes, serene, sparkling amber and green hope into his soul… Shining passion. Love.

He's almost choking at the pressure of pain.

But then his heart halts his desperate beat, the trouble in his breathing caused now from the powerful emotion overcoming his senses and he finds himself on the verge of tears.

Because when he looks up, she sees her, sitting in the couch of the end of the room, legs folded under her, staring away, absentminded. Magnificent apparition he could stare forever.

She heards him and leans back to direct her eyes at him, meeting his unfocused gaze; she's thoughtful, like assessing. The couch receives a direct stream of sunlight from the side window and it envelops her in golden and white as she unfolds her legs and stands up with resolve; he follows her every move, enthralled. She doesn't come close, though, just takes one tentative step and lingers in the middle of the room, looking like a goddess, sheer light radiating from her, pure sweetness and power and grace. Captivating beauty in just a white shirt. His shirt.

He exhales, emotion clogging his throat.

He can't believe his luck. He can't believe this has happened; _is_ happening. Yesterday he was out of hope, relying only in the illusion of a satisfaction he didn't really felt for having had the guts to walk away, to not be there, watching, tied and powerless, as she walked forefront in her senseless war and threw herself recklessly right into the line of fire, unmindful of the consequences.

But now...

Every single cell of his body is dancing and rejoicing and celebrating in silence. They really did it. They did it. And she hasn't left.

"So it wasn't a dream." He beams at her, lips curving into a loopsided smile, satisfied, almost smug. He is proud that his voice sounds calm, caring and so steady through the crazy thumping of his heart.

All the blood in his body is rushing through his veins at light-speed, wild, filled with adrenaline, making him feel a bit dizzy. He can't do anything, just wait, mesmerized as he is, for her next move. Because it's got to be her move.

She smiles, coy and alluring, illuminating his soul. His world.

"I do hope not." She answers, shyly but securely, voice slow and deep, a soft timbre to it that he got to hear last night for the first time and he just wants to keep hearing it unceasingly for the rest of his life.

"Yeah." He smiles broadly, with dreamy eyes sparkling with amazement and desire. She stares into his eyes from a few feet away and it's like electricity crackling in the line of their meeting gazes, the mighty amber beams that travel across the room holding them for a moment in time.

If he looked out the window, he'd be seeing that same power in the crystal windows of the city which, like mirrors, would reflect streams of light, orange and red and yellow and impossible hues in between them, stirring the city that never sleeps, taking it out of its light slumber, and guiding it to the natural perfect chaos of daylight. No more traces of the raging storm than the raindrops in trees and cornices, and the probably still somewhat damp streets.

She approaches with wistful semblance and a timid smile. He really sees her now, just as mesmerized as before but more focused and aware. She's endless legs and a half-buttoned shirt - _his_ shirt - that covers just too much of her luscious skin. Her hair is deliciously disheveled - all his doing, he thinks, smugly - and it shines in the clear light of the morning, sending glints of gold all around. It looks fairer; she looks younger. Her eyes sparkle as well; they are gentle and bright and displaying a rich combination of auburn, hazel and green nuances he's never seen in her before. And there's something more, something he can't identify. Doubts? Yesterday she had a close call, and she was vulnerable. She was damp and desolate; maybe she just needed to feel connected, to feel safe, at home. For him to forgive her.

No. That's not what it is. Fear? Not quite. Not only that, at least. He's a little scared, as well, but that's not bad. He should be able to handle it. They have been waiting too long for this. Things are different now; they've got to be. This is **it**.

She is composed and she does look calm, but her chest moves in rhythm with her respiration and he can tell she's taking deep breaths. She's nervous.

He's filled with that sensation that makes his stomach flutter and his joints relax and his whole skin sizzle slowly from underneath. She's nervous. He wants to run to her, jump on her, hold her in his arms, squeezing tight, and never let go; it's a really hard to fight impulse. But he knows better. This's been a big step for her. She's guarded, playing it close to the vest, and with him, she's been too cautious. She needs time, he would give her time. He won't push her. Much. It's wiser to keep calm, to be measured now that he knows how. It took them long enough to get to where they are in this instant. He's not going to ruin it just for his childish need to touch and get physical proof of the reality of this.

And he wants to savor it, this moment, the vision of her, half naked looking at him like that, with sunshine in her eyes.

He can wait for her to come to him to push her back to bed and repeat – several times - all the things they did last night.

"Morning," he says, still in awe, voice low and mellow, sitting straight, making place, inviting her closer subtly.

"Morning," she responds, with equal rich tone. She holds his gaze for as long as she's able to, but soon she notices a blush creeping up from her chest to her cheeks; his joyful eyes are too vehement, his whole body too enticing. Biting her lower lip she averts her eyes, which she really wants to roll at her own behavior.

"I made coffee." He swiftly glances at the end table and notices the smoking mug, gleaming in the daylight. She whispers, more than talks, as if she were afraid of breaking the spell. Yep, she's nervous. But it's not awkward. They don't feel awkward. At all.

She sits in the far end of the bed, trying to keep her breathing even and fidgeting with the tails of the shirt, tugging at them, not really embarrassed about being almost undressed, but anxious, and above all, completely taken aback by the extreme intensity of the whole situation. She is ridiculously aware of every nervous ending of her body, her whole self set aflame under his stare.

She looks up from her lap and confronts his waiting eyes, so caring that they calm down a bit the deafening pounding of her heart.

"Slept well?" She's deliberately unhurried in her question, all eyelashes, confident but not at all unaffected by his closeness and as dazzled by _this_, this new thing between them, as he is.

"Yeah." His response is immediate, accompanied by transfixed eyes and a grin. The corner of her mouth lifts up and he knows she's reliving a certain moment of last night. Maybe the same as him. "I could get used to it." He adds, as reverently as in prayer.

"Me too." His heart stops at her answer, so gentle and sincere that feels as a revelation, because she can be talking about her sleep or about their future mornings, but seeing beyond the curve of her lips and the green spark of her eyes, he would go with the latest.

And she's so cute, so adorable, that he almost feels like crying. It's so unlike her that she drops her guard, that she shows this insecurity, this vulnerability, that he is even more grateful and more proud, and elated than he thought possible. And he's sure he'll have a stroke or something if his heart doesn't ease off the wild and chaotic beating.

In contrast with the frenzied rhythm of their hearts, their exchange is slow motion. Or so it seems, in the golden warmth of the light of the new day. Their words are still dripping with subtext, but they are getting bolder, more defined.

He tilts his head to one side, taking her in. She's gorgeous. She really is. And so real it almost hurts. So he didn't dream that she did that thing that made him see fireworks, and they really did that other thing with… Oh, god. They had a really good time. Really good. He breathes deeply and grits his teeth. He's got to stop that train of thought or he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off her. And he's just decided a second ago that it's not a wise idea. He can't recall why, though. He's a bit slow, brain drowning in hormones, adrenaline and endorphins; passion and afterglow. But he can't push those vivid torrid images away now. He really took every piece of clothing off her; jacket to panties. He had to tug hard at the damn pants when they stick to their soaked skin, as she squirmed in the bed, not really helping, both incensed by passion and laughing at the obstacle. He's almost sure he ruined her blouse when he tried to slide it together with her jacket. Oh, he remembers vividly when she took her bra off, her eyes challenging him, and how she threw it away when he took her legs and flipped her to have better access to...

"Wait. You do have a tattoo…"

"So you saw it," she presses her lips together, not quite smiling, but close enough. "I wasn't sure."

"Yeah…" He says eagerly. "I was otherwise... occupied." He moves his eyes and eyebrows suggestively and she rolls her eyes. "But I did see it." He waits a second and adds cheekily. "Nice place."

This is them as always. The tentativeness and the diffidence seem to fade away. Her usual challenging self is back and she looks at him intently, defiant.

"So you liked it?"

Yes. He liked it. Everything. All the things they did. The mere thought of the many more to come. Every bit of her. Every pore of his skin, every corner of her body, every smile, moan, whimper, whisper, moan… Even when she hit him for biting her too hard.

He reaches for her hand and pulls her closer to him. She looks at her hands entwined together, his fingers caressing her knuckles in slow circular moves that make her breath catch. His proximity is exhilarating; it's thrilling and frightening and new. He takes his other hand to his face, strokes her cheekbone and curls it at her nape, playing distractedly with her hair. She closes her eyes and releases the breath she's been holding.

He whispers her name and she hears the devotion he's put on it. The thoughts that have been upsetting her disappear completely, vanishing in the adoration that fills the air surrounding them. She can sense it. His love.

Opening her eyes, she searches his, and smiles into them. Their gazes, both brimming with passion and tenderness, could light up the city. Her hand comes to rest above his sternum, relishing the double feeling of their skins together. Still cradling her head, he skims his thumb along the muscles of her neck, following her carotid to that sweet spot under her lobe, then the line of her jaw. It's too much, but not near enough. He leaves her face with a sweet caress and his hand comes down to her knee, touching with his knuckles, testing, then moving along her thigh, only brushing too lightly the inner skin, but leaving fire in its wake.

She closes the distance between them, lips just grazing, barely there. She can feel him smiling. Their mouths enjoy their mingling warmth for a moment, breathing together, and then he's pressing himself to her. Their lips move in unison, lazily at first, only unhurried brushes, an accidental touch of their tongues, but then she tugs at his lower lip and soothes with her tongue and, suddenly, there's no calm anymore, just frenzy movements, nibbles and bites; lips and teeth and tongues dancing to the same old song in the light of a new day.

She slides her hand across his chest and down to his stomach, leisurely, scraping the skin lightly with her nails. She can feel on her fingertips how his muscles tense and clench at her touch. A languid moan escapes from him into her mouth as she continues the journey across his upper body. Her hand moves to his back, caresses his side and follows the line of his spine up to his shoulder blades; she draws him toward her and it instills more passion into their already heated kiss. He intertwines the fingers of their already joint hands and gives her hand one last squeeze before releasing it completely. His time to retaliate, she knows; she counts on it. They halt the mutual assault of their mouths, panting, lungs burning for air.

Disarmed by his kiss and lost under his consuming gaze, she has to close her eyes to try to gather herself together, to control her erratic breathing and her overexcited heart, but to no avail. It's not fair what he does to her. What he makes her feel. She hides into his neck, nuzzling, tasting him, wanting to get even, to make him feel as desperate as she is. His pulse is irregular too, and she licks the pounding vein, up to the jaw.

He traces the collar of the shirt with a finger, purposely grazing the skin underneath. She leans back, instinctively, to give him better access and he follows the line of buttonholes, just above her sternum, always barely touching; her breath catches in anticipation when he reaches the first fastened button. He takes his time, unfastening each of them deliberately slow and her chest heaves with shallow breaths. When he reaches the last one, just above her belly, he finally slips a hand in between the sides of the shirt, entering the now known territory. She inhales sharply when he finds her warm silky skin and revels in it. His hand covers her entire abdomen, fingers travelling across it, passing her navel, tracing her ribs, sliding up until he arrives to the side of her breast. She is melting in his touch, a pure gasp, and he smiles naughtily, sweeps a thumb over it and she moans. She searches his earlobe to bite in sweet revenge.

He repeats the moves with his other hand, and she whimpers. She jerks apart, like struck by lightning, and pulls at the sheets, sending them to the floor. He scoots up and she climbs to the bed, moving over him, her skin touching as much of his skins as it's humanly possible. He grabs her, rolling them on the mattress with the momentum. They keep rolling from side to side of the bed, laughing and touching and kissing, as they tease, both exerting and releasing control. Taking and giving. Soon they settle, face to face, limbs tangled, grinning. He captures her mouth in a searing kiss and she takes advantage of the distraction to move over so that she's on top. Biting her lip, she feasts her eyes on him, hands roaming over his torso. His view of her is still half covered, so he reaches for the shirt and pulls the sides apart, brushing her breasts on his way. He slides the piece of clothing over her shoulders and off her and relishes the sight. All he can see is the dazzling smile and the fire in her eyes, mirroring his; she wants him as badly as he wants her.

She lowers herself to kiss him again and murmur in her ear.

"You know? Breakfast must be cold already." He takes advantage of that position to flip her over again, leaving her on her back, just because he can, and because he wants.

"Mmm. I don't care. I prefer you." He licks the hollow of her throat and sights content. But he jolts apart suddenly. "Wait. You cooked breakfast?" She nods, glowing, happy, hair fanning out over the pillow sending glints of golden and auburn light around. He notices now, beyond the prevailing scent of her, that he can smell not only the coffee, also a real breakfast. Bacon and…"It smells like…" He looks at her suspiciously and sniffs the air. She smiles coyly. "Kate… Did you make pancakes?" She goes for his mouth to erase the silly grin that has spread all over his face, but kissing him through that grin is almost impossible, and she gives up, simply taking his face between her hands. Thumbs over his cheeks, she runs her fingers through his hair and he grows serious. They both do. Like treasuring the moment, imprinting it in their minds. She raises her chin and he meets her half way. It's a soft kiss, gentle. Casual. A gesture of couples that would do it every day.

Eyes shimmering in deep green and hazel, she shrugs.

"Good morning," she smiles, sultry voice despite the dryness of throat, emotion and satisfaction clear in her. He hovers over her, stunned, dazed by this new facet of her, this soft creature melting in her arms letting him see her. Really see her.

He wants to pamper her whole body, taste every inch of her scrumptious skin, touch her until he is certain that her skin would always remember his fingers. Instead, he moves abruptly, sitting up and leaving her splayed on the bed, disconcerted and yes, all hot and bothered. But he shouldn't be any better. He hisses when his bare feet touch the ground, and before standing up he turns toward her. "Don't move," he commands sweetly, plants a quick peck on her lips and dashes out.

She hears him fumbling with dishes and cutlery, humming some tune she doesn't recognize. She picks the shirt and is going to put it on again to meet him in the living room or the kitchen, when he calls out, as if he had heard her fumbling. "Stay in bed, Kate." And he adds a longing, whining plead. "Please." She sighs. He hears his steps approaching and when she looks out the door he meets his soft blue eyes; they're sparkling, but she can see a hiding sadness that closes her throat.

"Our first morning together..." She narrows her eyes when notices the big tray he's carrying with all the things she cooked: bacon, pancakes, eggs... "I don't want your work getting ruined." He says apologetically. "But I don't want to leave bed either."

She looks at him; tilting her head, takes in his hopeful eyes. She presses her lips to avoid biting them and does _not _smile. She can humor him. Can't she?

"I'll bring the coffee." She concedes, shaking her head and faking a resigned sigh.

"No way." He and his tray enter the room, forcing her to walk backwards until her legs bump against the end of the bed. Placing the tray beside her on the floor he moves closer, crowds her until she is completely pressed against him. "You did too much already." He whispers hotly in her ear, leaving no doubt about what he means. She sits, gasping for air, but still raises her eyebrow trying to act cool, skeptical; he smiles and kisses her cheek. "Not that I'm complaining."

He saunters out of the bedroom, with a too exaggerated sway to his hips that draws a big grin in her face. She takes her hand to her mouth, to hold back the laughter bubbling inside; looks around in disbelief and exhales heavily.

_Breakfast for two in bed. That's how you start the rest of your life, Kate? _She shakes her head but settles back in bed just when Castle is back with coffee and of course, a flower. Because it's got to be in the DIY manual of breakfasts in bed that there is no breakfast in bed without a flower. She rolls her eyes and he frowns, faking offence.

He hands her her mug with a kiss and snuggles up to her.

If she's being honest with herself (and she wants to be) she likes this. Really likes this.

She can get used to it.

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_**A/N:** This would be the moment were they receive a call that brings them back to the harsh and dangerous reality, don't you think? I'll leave that to the show, though. _

_Thoughts? It was my birthday last week and reviews would make a really good gift. Just sayin'. ;)_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **_Last chapter. Nothing to do with the sneaks, and it was hard not to think about them, because, have you watched them? They are deathly. Gee, I think I flatlined like every time I watched... *grins*... and went to shipper-heaven. I can't believe we're mere hours away!_

_Thanks for the follows and the favorites and especially, for the reviews, which mean a greater effort. They all are much appreciated. :) _

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It's not that he prefers breakfast to sex. Nope. That's not it. Especially when it's extraordinary sex with the extraordinary Kate Beckett, who is wearing next to nothing and just a moment ago lied splayed across his bed and ready for him. It's this closeness, this new so casual intimacy. And it is great. She's still hot for him, but she's relaxed, sipping her coffee in silence, and he congratulates himself for the idea of bringing their breakfast to bed. Now they'll have time to settle, to get used to this newness. To know each other in this new side of their relationship that lies between the lovers and the friends.

He plans on attacking her and resume their third round (or was it the fourth?) right where they've left it, anyway, as soon as they can, once they've talked a bit, maybe, because he's dying for her to tell him that she's serious about this. She's got to be. And he also wants to make her eat, because God knows when it was the last time she ate and, after all the exercise of the night and the draining happenings of the day before, there's no way she's got much energy remaining. _Well_, he corrects himself, _it's Beckett we're talking about_. He's certain she could still kick ass and be the strong woman she is in any circumstance. Even after those acrobatics of last night that he can't take off his mind.

She certainly had all the right to wear that smug smile every time she teased him about her… uh… abilities.

Determined to keep his focus on the task he's imposed on himself and defying his wandering mind - which, let's be honest, will be wandering forever and distracting him at the most random times now that he's tasted the reality of her -, he cuts a pancake in small portions. He picks one under her suspicious stare, suspicious because, by the way he's throwing glances at her, she expects him to feed it to her. He hesitates, though, and instead of directing it to her mouth, or his, he simply hands her the fork with a sheepish stance. She takes it with a reserved smile, and eats it, while he simply stares at her, entranced by the way her mouth closes around the fork, the way her jaw works while chewing, how her eyes close as she tastes what he is sure is the first solid food he's eaten in two days. Looking at him through half closed lids, she takes in his wistful smile.

She's partly amused, partly fascinated by him and his eagerness. He just stopped what was going to be their first morning sex to bring her breakfast. The frustration she'd felt when she was left on the bed almost naked disappeared as soon as she saw his longing eyes and that adorable smile. He wants to make things right; he's giving her time, and some quiet moments to talk.

There was some talking last night, but not near enough; there had been more urgent things to do, like losing in each other completely. They had needed it so badly… And once they started, there was not a chance they stopped. There is no force in Nature that would have made them stop. They were a force of Nature themselves. Sheer passion.

Especially at that time when she had… and in return he had… Oh, God. She might be blushing…

She turns her head a little to try to cover the flush that started on her cheeks and is now spreading to her chest. His heated look sure doesn't help; she's almost certain he's remembering the same moment of the night as she is.

She inhales softly and, with her heart pounding, realizes that her blushing is not something she wants to hide from him. That's what he makes her feel. And judging by his unfaltering dreamy smile and those sweet sparkling eyes, he's just as struck.

She picks another piece of the pancake with the fork on her hand, tilts her head and offers it to him, her hand traveling to his mouth and coaxing his mouth open with a stroke of her hand to his cheek, her thumb on his lips. He takes the bite without averting his eyes from hers. Her mouth opens inadvertently, tongue licking her own lips at the intimate and unexpectedly hot act. She retreats, flustered, causing their arms to brush against each other. It's like an electric shock to her already hypersensitive skin. She throws a side glance at him from below her lashes and she knows that he's felt it too. It makes her shiver in anticipation, and it makes him stand still as she moves closer with intent; his eyes close, undoubtedly trying to regain some calm and keep himself in track. He draws a deep breath and she gives in; leaving the fork and moving the tray away, she leans on him, her head on the crook of her shoulder, her nose touching his neck.

"Thank you." She mutters.

Angling his upper body backwards, he pulls his arm from between them and slides his hand through her back diagonally, up to her shoulder and then down her arm to finally press her to him. She comes willingly and snuggles a bit, wrapped in the silence of a sweet embrace. He places a kiss on her hair. He doesn't need to ask; he'll just wait for her. To elaborate.

She remembers she did mention to him that she'd quitted, that she didn't need the job anymore, that she didn't want to cling to the past if that meant... Oh, what did she tell him exactly? She told him she wanted him; she made it clear. Pretty clear. But did she tell him that she'd come because he was the only thing she didn't want to give up on? Yes, she told him that she could only think of him while she was about to die. That she didn't care about the conspirators getting away.

But, does that convey all that she feels for him?

Not that she's willing to have a conversation about that… Oh, how she wishes she were any better at this. But having the conversation, the talk… The mere thought makes her want to... _What, Kate, _her mind supplies scornfully, _sneak out?_ No, not that… She almost rolls her eyes at the stupidity of the idea. She wouldn't. She couldn't. Not after all the effort if took for her to finally step up and be here. Not after having tested his patience and his good will. For months. She could, however, she thinks, try to distract him with her charms if it comes to the moment the thought forms, she reproaches herself for it, shaking her head. _It's Castle_, she keeps reminding herself; sometimes it calms her, but sometimes it only makes her more anxious. _It's Castle and_ _you'd give whatever for him, _her brain insists_, you've already decided it. So, what if he wants to talk about what you feel? _It's not as if she could hide it, anyway_._ Her mind goes back to all those times when he'd tried to disguise it, in vain. Apparently, it's obvious, as Lanie had pointed out more times than she'd have liked. Or her therapist. Or gee… Even the Captain. Her Captain, her friend.

She sighs at the thought of him and recalls their conversation the eve of that fateful day, when he'd plainly told her that he kept Castle around just because he was good for her. He had known. She'd known too, but kept fooling herself. She had tied her life to her mother's case and to her job because of that, and Castle had somehow been a hindrance, trying to pull her away from it by bringing her back to reality, attempting to open her eyes to the real magnitude of that. Just to keep her safe.

The argument at her apartment had been a harsh slap for her; Castle had thrown a lot of truths on her face, about the case, about them and she was… Scared? Petrified. She lived for her chase, how could he doubt that she'd win eventually. And them… How did he dare? How could he say those things about her when he was the one that had drifted away? She had tried to reach for him but he had rejected her and choose to… No, she can't be that unfair to him. It had burnt like a rejection but he hadn't known. She can blame him only for not having waited, for being human. But he came back, and has stayed by her side despite... all. And he has learnt to be patient since.

The night in the hangar had been hell. Despite the fight and the despair, he had been there for her, with her, and that's why she had been able to go on. He let her cry silently on his shoulder without the need of words, until the units had come. His mere presence had been the best solace. He had stood beside her and stayed strong and hadn't questioned her, nor flinched at her stern looks, her acid retorts, her mask of coolness. That's what she had meant on her eulogy to the Captain. She was aware. And thankful.

What would've happened between them if she hadn't been shot? Would have she been able to have knocked on his door like she did last night, asking for forgiveness and more? Who knows… But she's almost sure that she wouldn't have been able to detach from her mother's case. To really appreciate the meaning of the words of her Captain.

Irony or coincidence, almost one year later, the circumstances repeated themselves. The argument on her apartment had been worse, though, because he was tired and out of hope and they'd both felt betrayed by the other's secrets... Explosion of hurt feelings that ended with a huge raise of the stakes and the next move being her call. And right now she's so grateful that he did walk out her door and let her to deal with those issues without the safety net he's come to be for her. Because that allowed her to get things straight.

And get here.

However, even though they've come this far, which is quite far, she knows it's not enough; they have to advance, go forward, from here. If only she knew how or there were a magic formula...

Because sure as rain she doesn't want to ruin this and she's so afraid that she might, or harm it to some extent, unwillingly, that her chest constricts.

Maybe words are the magic formula, because so far, they've been shielding themselves under half truths, living on hints and nuances, glimpses of 'could-be's, shades of hope, walking over crumbles of old walls, all unstable, all in the air. That's what made them lose their way sometimes.

Yes, she'd like to think that, given where they've been, what they've been through, they both know where they stand with each other. She does know… He loves her; she loves him. But... does he know? The look in his eyes, hard and betrayed, when he'd opened the door… That had hurt. Almost much as his saying that they were done.

But she'd come here in the middle of the night, damp to the bone, cold and desperate claiming to want him and only him; she had apologized with her body and her soul. Is it enough for him to know the depth of her feelings?

It was enough for him to accept her back, to at least begin to forgive her and she wishes he knows the real importance of this to her.

She's still here. This is_ it_ for her. She's been healing for this, for him as much as for herself. To be able to be here and even more. To be able to stay.

"For not giving up." She speaks again in the bright light of the morning, in the shiny rays of a new day. And her words try to convey all that she feels, all that she wants.

"But I did, I…" He can't avoid thinking that he should have been there. Although a part of him is perfectly aware that there had to be like that, he had to step away for her to take the leap.

"No, Castle," she places a hand on his chest, above his heart and plays with her fingertips in the soft skin. "You woke me up."

He learned last summer, the hard way, that the fear of loss is not just a random plot device. It prompts the biggest acts of love, brings the major revelations. Makes you realize your place in the world. For real.

He presses his own hand over hers and holds it in place, entwining their fingers and she presses a kiss on his knuckles, then nuzzles his neck.

"Always."

And he says it with purpose. If it's up to him, he would wake her up every single day of the rest of their lives.

.

_Fin_

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_A/N2: Hope you've liked it. Let me know... hearing from you is always a thrill. :)_


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